


lay me down to rest / on the stitches on your chest

by insatiablegaydesire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Could be read platonically but is meant romantically, Fluff, Full Moon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Stitches, set in season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29667246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insatiablegaydesire/pseuds/insatiablegaydesire
Summary: This wasn’t the first time Stiles had had to patch his best friend up. Melissa McCall may have been a nurse, but she was also a single mother working countless hours a week to provide for herself and her son. She taught both boys the ins and outs of a First Aid kit, the patterns of poison ivy and chicken pox, and exactly how deep enough a cut had to be to warrant calling 911. His own dad had taught him how to sew, to hem pants and replace a button. He’d taken on knitting for himself, at age nine when his favorite pair of socks threatened to give out any day, the stars and planets developing black holes of their own. Stiles had delivered hundreds of minor fix-ups to Scott; Scott had given him twice as many in return. They were nightmares of children, always getting into messes.Perhaps they were made for this, then. Scott as the fledgeling werewolf, under a full moon, locked up but rattling the chains. Stiles as the one to come in with the rising sun, armed up to his chest with supplies to fix what the claws of night had broken.
Relationships: Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	lay me down to rest / on the stitches on your chest

**Author's Note:**

> i've been meaning to write a sciles fic for forever, ever since i started watching tw for my beloved friend andy. as it is, this is dedicated to andy and lauren, the eddie trinity, brart premium gc, wlw supremes. <3

This wasn’t the first time Stiles had had to patch his best friend up. Melissa McCall may have been a nurse, but she was also a single mother working countless hours a week to provide for herself and her son. She taught both boys the ins and outs of a First Aid kit, the patterns of poison ivy and chicken pox, and exactly how deep enough a cut had to be to warrant calling 911. His own dad had taught him how to sew, to hem pants and replace a button. He’d taken on knitting for himself, at age nine when his favorite pair of socks threatened to give out any day, the stars and planets developing black holes of their own. Stiles had delivered hundreds of minor fix-ups to Scott; Scott had given him twice as many in return. They were nightmares of children, always getting into messes. 

Perhaps they were made for this, then. Scott as the fledgeling werewolf, under a full moon, locked up but rattling the chains. Stiles as the one to come in with the rising sun, armed up to his chest with supplies to fix what the claws of night had broken. 

“Rough night?” Stiles asked.

Scott raised his head from where it had been resting on the tops of his knees. “Easier than the last,” he said, smile weak.

“Still. I think I’m gonna have to stitch up that thing on your chest, man.”

Scott glanced down at his torn shirt, as if it was the first time he was noticing it. “You don’t have to. It should heal.”

Stiles was already measuring out the thread, snipping the end and preparing the knot for the needle. 

Scott must’ve been tired, because he didn’t try to protest when Stiles kneeled down and made his intentions known. The valiant hero disappeared almost entirely after a full moon, leaving him open and pliable. Stiles took advantage of this, nudging Scott’s arms up so he could take off his shirt.

“C’mon, gotta clean the wound first.”

Scott winced as the blood-stiff shirt brushed over his skin, his sensitivity still heightened. “Hurts,” he said from behind gritted teeth.

“Try not to move. Hurts more when you move.”

They had been through this too many times before. Stiles wondered if these nights would ever get easier, if Scott would ever learn complete control. He could spend the rest of his life going through this, high school and college and beyond. Stiles would spend the rest of his life taking care of him if that were the case.

The alcohol burned when it bathed the wound, Scott’s body burning with it. Stiles pulled a damp washcloth from within the supplies he’d hauled in and pressed it to Scott’s forehead. 

“Thanks,” Scott muttered. His eyes fluttered open once the majority of the fire had been put out, gazing at Stiles with unguarded appreciation. 

Stiles pulled a tight smile in response, beginning the stitches and smiling for real when Scott didn’t tense. The hypersensitivity was starting to dull, and hopefully the pain would too. Scott was healing faster these days, improving along with his control. At this point, Stiles could easily hypothesize how long Scott would take to recover from how much he struggled against the bonds. Each month both became less and less. Soon enough Stiles would stop having to bring in the thread.

Scott broke Stiles’ concentration. “Why do you do this?”

Stiles measured the question, tilting his head side to side. “Because if I didn’t take care of you, no one would,” he concluded.

“No, I mean... why stitch me up if you know I’m going to heal anyway?”

“It helps you heal faster.” Stiles said it like Scott was stupid for even asking.

“It shortens it by a few hours, max.”

Stiles paused in his movements, looking up to meet Scott’s eyes for a quick second. “You’re my best friend.” He looked away.

Scott didn’t ask any more questions, leaving Stiles to finish the stitchwork in silence. They could both hear the birds chirping from outside when Stiles was done. The golden sunlight filtered in through the curtains, shining on the crumpled pile of Scott’s now completely ruined shirt. 

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to get the stains out of that,” Scott said.

Stiles stood, clapping his hands together once, soundly. “Cold water, hydrogen peroxide. Might end up surviving the war.”

“And the huge gash in the middle of the chest made by werewolf claws?”

A snap, a pair of finger guns. “I’ll have it back to you in a month, two tops.”

Scott laughed, light and airy, high up in his chest. He tossed a new shirt over himself, an old Tee from Beacon Hills Middle.

Deep down, under the insanity of it all, they were still just kids. Brave, broken, beautifully brazen kids.

“You know you don’t have to do all this, thought, right?” Scott continued. “I’m the one who got bit. You didn’t sign up.”

“And you did?”

Scott shook his head. “That’s different and you know it. I have no choice. But you do.”

“Like I said, you’re my best friend. I don’t have a choice in this either.”

“Stiles...”

Stiles pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, a hand on his hip like a frustrated mother. “I’m stitching you up, I’m fixing your shirt, you can’t pull your humble shit and stop me.”

“I was going to say ‘thank you.’”

His fingers and his shoulders dropped. “Oh. Well, then, you’re welcome.”

“Do me a favor though? Don’t fix that shirt. Didn’t like it much anyway.”

“Fine. But next time, you let me stitch you up in peace.”

"Deal."

Unbeknownst to both of them, the skin below the shirt had already seamed itself together around the thread, string embedded in the layers that Scott would be forced to pull out come early afternoon. They’d find their home in an Algebra II classroom trash can, broken and bloodied for some other confused student to find. For the next three full moons, Scott would let Stiles stitch him up again. One morning Scott would heal in the middle of Stiles crossing string over skin to skin, and Stiles would look up at him in amazement when Scott broke the threads with practiced ease. They would both know it to be the last. But until then, Scott remained the fledgeling werewolf, broken and battered, and Stiles the breaking light of day, to fix him up until he shone. Sometimes, it was just nice to pretend.


End file.
